Christian Speaks
by Arlee.Adams
Summary: This one-off story is dedicated to mothers of young children everywhere. Your love and dedication inspire us all.


_The written matter published on this blog acknowledges E.L. James' characters, themes and plots in Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker or Fifty Shades Freed. These works belong to the author and owner, E.L. James. This fan fiction material is not for-profit, and therefore constitutes fair use. No copyright infringement is intended._

**The story is a one-off only.**

August 15, 1989: Dr. Grace Trevelyn-Grey

I'm at my wit's end. How could I think this would be easy? My maternity leave is almost up, and I still haven't finalized the tutoring arrangements for Christian. He can't mainstream, of course. His issues of silence and haphephobia mean he could never be in a classroom. He can't participate, he can't tell teachers or other students not to touch him. His vocalizations are those of an infant - grunts and snorts. He would be humiliated by teasing and mockery and would regress even further.

I know my son is extremely intelligent, even though he's never been able to be tested. When Christian began piano lessons a year ago, his instructor was stunned. I recall our conversation last May. "You son is a prodigy, Dr. Trevelyn-Grey. He can sight read, and he can hear a composition once and repeat it technically immediately, essentially note for note. Nuance and expression quickly follow. He's performing at a level of a ten year old with five years of lessons under his belt. He will soon be beyond my teaching capabilities." Another thing on my plate, locate a new piano teacher.

Mia has finished her breakfast, and I climb the stairs with her in my arms to see if Christian is awake. My beautiful son is stirring, and when he wakes and sees I'm holding Mia, his face lights up with joy. His thin arms reach out for us, fingers clutching in the air. I sit on his bed and rest my weary bones, exhausted already and it's only 7.30 am. A six month old infant. An infant in a six year old body. Hyper-active Elliot almost seems easy.

I begin to sing a song from Christian's favorite movie, an oldie but a goodie. I think of how he sits crossed-legged in front of the television set, totally absorbed. It's "Hans Christian Andersen," the fabricated biography of the famous Danish fairytale writer, starring Danny Kaye, released in 1952.

_"Two and two are four_  
_Four and four are eight_  
_Eight and eight are sixteen_  
_Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two_  
_Inchworm, inchworm_  
_Measuring the marigolds_  
_You and your arithmetic_  
_You'll probably go far_  
_Inchworm, inchworm_  
_Measuring the marigolds_  
_Seems to me you'd stop and see_  
_How beautiful they are"_

I watch Christian touch Mia's little hand, stroking it in time to the song. How gentle he is with her, so unlike the violent episodes with Elliot and Carrick. When the rages happen, there's nothing to be done. Any other child in my practice would be drawn in closely until he or she calmed and cried it out. But Christian cannot be held. Music seems to help, but touch would be so much better. I sigh sadly, then look down as I feel a tug on my hair. Christian's eyes are fascinated at the weak sunlight highlighting the blond. His intelligent gray eyes look up at me.

"Oh, Christian, I love you so much, my wonderful little boy. Will I ever be able to hold you?" He sits up, ignoring me, and I take that as his answer. The top of his Batman pajamas rides up and I see the scar of the cigarette burn on his back, and blink back my tears.

Carrick had investigators go through the building and the neighborhood where Christian was discovered. They spoke with people who remembered the little copper-haired toddler. They said he was never quiet, was always talking and singing, mostly to himself, but often to his mother, Ella, and the neighbors they knew. Never to the pimp. Never.

So I know my son has a voice and a vocabulary. He's very alert and he listens intently to every conversation. I'm sure if he ever speaks, it will be clearly enunciated. _If_ that happens and his vocal cords don't atrophy into uselessness.

It's 9.00 am and Mia is in the family room under Christian's protection. I am thirty feet away across the hall with the door open and baby monitor turned on.

Carrick is horrified that I leave him alone with her, but my husband hasn't seen what I have. Mia is Christian's reason for being. He worships her, protects her, he is tender and affectionate in a way that he is with no one else. He holds her in his arms and doesn't flinch when her baby fists touch his chest. He would no more hurt her than recite the Gettysburg Address.

I review the list in front of me. Just as with the piano teacher, the tutor must be female, with any type of hair other than long, dark brown. I discovered that issue with the first piano teacher. When she walked through the front door, Christian's eyes grew wide and filled with fright, and he scrambled away to hide under his bed. Carrick later told me his mother had light blue-gray eyes and long brown hair.

I'd like to find a tutor who knows ASL. Maybe if Christian cannot speak, he can acquire a few rudimentary signs to communicate. I'm the only one who is able to translate his needy body language, and then only after a lot of guessing games, which only frustrates and angers both of us.

I complete three phone calls, each taking about twenty minutes, as I describe Christian's pathology. One of the tutors is definitely not interested. The other two are scheduled for interviews at our home, but I suspect one of the two will not be acceptable. She is working on her PhD in abnormal child psychology at the U, and I suspect she wants my son to be part of her dissertation. Since my requirements are so many and so restrictive, I book the appointment anyway.

Christian runs into my office, hands flapping, looking worried. Here we go. "What is it, sweetheart? Are you hungry?" He runs away and I walk to the kitchen, but he's not there. It's probably the VCR, needs a rewind.

I'm turned away from my walk to the family room when my office phone rings, and I pick up the line. It's about a five year old girl that I treated two months ago for a broken leg, obtained in a fall in the playground. Her well-to-do parents insist that Dr. Trevelyn-Grey is the only physician in the Northwest capable of removing the cast. I remind my assistant that there are two weeks left in my maternity leave, but the parents must be standing in front of her, because her tone is formal. I pull out my date book. I'll go in, but on my schedule, not theirs.

Throughout the exchange, Christian has been running in and out of the room, becoming more panic-stricken each time, but there's nothing coming from the baby monitor. As I say good bye to my assistant, he arrives again. "Mother, it's Mia. She's behaving strangely, and I don't know what to do. I've tried turning her over and clearing her mouth, but there's nothing in there. Please, come quickly, I'm afraid she'll die."

Without processing anything but the call for help, I run to the family room, where I see my little girl on her back, and she's having difficulty breathing. I lay her face down along my forearm, and use my lap for support. I hold my baby's chest in my hand and her jaw with my fingers. Pointing her head downward, I give three quick, forceful blows between her tiny shoulder blades. Out pops a piece of plastic from one of Christian's toy cars.

I hear small sobs. "Is she all right, Mother? This is all my fault. Mia isn't going to die, is she? Father always tells me to pick up my toys when I'm finished playing, but I must have missed that piece. Mother, is Mia dead? Did I kill her?" With that my little girl gives a huge wail, probably more at Christian's distress than anything else.

Calmer now that the crisis is over, I look at Christian, my heart full of love, my eyes full of tears. "Christian, this is _not_ you fault. It's nobody's fault, accidents happen. You did exactly the right thing when you ran to get me. I'm sorry I was too busy to follow you the first time."

He looks down at his shoes. "Mia will be fine?" He talks like a miniature Carrick.

"Yes, darling, Mia will be fine. Thank you for speaking to me to tell me what was wrong. You are a very smart and very brave little boy. I love you very much, Christian." He now looks uncomfortable at the attention. "Would you like to watch the movie again, or would you rather go swimming in the pool?"

"I think I would like to play the piano before lunch and practice my new piece. May we go swimming after lunch, Mother?"

My throat closes against my joy and relief. My voice is shaky, "Absolutely, my darling. Absolutely."


End file.
